Gone
by Lilmuffin2017
Summary: When John is kidnapped by the world's only consulting criminal will Sherlock finally realize his feelings for John when he is finally on a case and can't ignore his obvious emotions? Johnlock, obviously. Fluff, for sure. Rated T just to be super duper safe. R&R!
1. Abducted

John sat quietly in his arm chair clutching to the sides of his newspaper. He hadn't noticed the lack of noise and the lack wafts of chemicals coming from his companion whom sat idly out in the kitchen. John found himself absorbed with the printed words in front of him.

Sherlock Holmes stared at the cleared wooden table in deep thought. His finger tips were pressed against each other underneath his chin as he entered his _mind palace_. Three murders, two females and a male, all in late to mid thirties, gone missing for countless days then found weeks later completely mangled and even decapitated. The main thing that stabbed at the detective was the fact that there was near to nothing to go on considering the fact every piece of evidence was gone due to the state of the body.

Sherlock silently pressed his elbows up on to the table and intertwined his fingers in to his dark curls. He let out a small breath from his mouth and slowly slipped from his frozen position of thinking. He leaned back in the slightly uncomfortable wooden chair and glanced out in to the living room where John sat quietly observing the morning paper. His blondish-grey hair slightly tousled from sleep but his features bright and alert.

"John." Sherlock huffed.

"I'm not playing Cluedo." John called, folding the paper up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rose up to his feet, "I was going to request that you'd accompany me to Speedy's for breakfast. Though we can play that tonight if there isn't any work to be done." He shifted on his feet and stifled a yawn.

"Are you buttering me up for something? What next, you're going to pay for the meal?" John mused. Sherlock frowned slightly and stepped out in to the living room to swipe his jacket from the coat rack and slipped it over his lithe figure.

"I will pay if it be necessary." He slighty sucked in his cheeks.

"What's up with you?" John nearly gaped at Sherlock's change in willingness. Sherlock just shrugged and tucked his soft blue scarf around the collar of his coat - almost shyly staring down at his shoes.

Sherlock sighed, "I just need to get out and think." He stated simply and tossed John's jacket to him. "So, let's go."

"If you say so...," John said apprehensively tugging on his jacket over his jumper. He zipped it up half way and turned to where Sherlock had been standing to see he had already started down the stairs out of the flat. "Wait up!" John called after him. He stumbled down the steps as quickly as he could without tripping. It wasn't that it was unusual for Sherlock to slip away from a room with the stealth of a snake but sometimes John wished he'd have _some _patience.

He made it out the door expecting Sherlock to be gone and already inside the café next door but he was stood outside the flat adjusting the buttons on his coat with deep focus. "Sherlock." He said. The detective's eyes flicked upward and he pressed a smile on to his face for a brief second before going back to the permanent scowl and proceeding to Speedy's.

"So are we just going to," John started but Sherlock pushed into the café without caring to hold the door open for John, he some-what bitterly pressed in to the building, "Am I going to order food, and you're just going to stare out the window thinking deeply?" He finished, joining his aggravating friend at a table. As he expected the curly-haired man didn't respond and focused his eyes out the window to Baker street. "Ah, that's a yes then." John grumbled.

"John, I'm sorry, could you please be quiet I'm trying to think!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

"Sherlock, if you wanted me to come with you but didn't want me to talk then what was the bloody point?" John tried hard not to lose his temper. Again he ceased to respond and John ignored it and quietly ordered a tea for himself and Sherlock.

"Didn't want tea." Sherlock murmured as the stout pudgy blonde waitress left to carry out their order.

"It is nearly impossible to restrain myself from punching you." John grinded his teeth, glaring thickly at Sherlock.

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes, "Just because I'm not paying attention to you fully doesn't mean I can't see the position you are sitting in and how you've clenched and unclenched your right hand as though it was is your greatest dream to just slam your knuckles right in to my face."

"You're not helping yourself out." John scowled, "Honestly, would you just go home or sit somewhere else before plunge in to insanity?"

Sherlock sighed rather dramatically and finally seemed to acknowledge John, "I'm sorry. I've just been very . . . distracted. This current case has really strained me and I needed to get out of that flat before I resorted to trying to find my secret supply, that you have so obviously again stashed under my skull."

John sat back in his chair, letting out a small breath trying to relax himself, "How about we just have a conversation then? Instead of you sitting and thinking and stressing yourself out further." John suggested in a slightly disgruntled tone.

"Fine." Sherlock gave in. The waiter came back to their table setting down two small tea cups with small roses painted on them; in which John thanked and Sherlock rolled his eyes because they had made it wrong. Sherlock hesitantly rose the cup to his lips and gently sipped and grimaced, "Not near as good as you make it." He huffed.

"Oh?" John didn't try to hide his grin. Sherlock ever-so-slightly blushed and looked down to his tea to force down another sip and avoided John's amusement. John took a deep breath and took a sip of his own tea, seeing nothing wrong with it, and set it back down. It was rather sweet to the taste and warming to the soul. He couldn't think of anything to talk about that didn't involve cases or how to remove a tomahawk from flesh without causing someone to bleed out. "How about we go to the cinema today? My treat." John offered, cutting silence.

"Cinema. Pah." Sherlock scoffed. John softly sighed and lifted his cup back up to his lips to sip; slightly disappointed. "Okay, fine." Sherlock burst out after John sipped his tea with soft round eyes. "But don't scold me for ruining the end or complaining about how everything that idiotic writer came up with could never happen."

"I won't scold you. Just want to take you out to get your mind of things. Even you could use a day off, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled softly. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, slightly content John was taking him out to the movies...like a date? Ridiculous. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably in his chair trying to cut off his thoughts. Sherlock suddenly felt the color drain from his face; a date? Why was he even thinking like that? He really needed a case that he could solve before he broke the wall of insanity.

"What's wrong?"

"Huh? Oh sorry." Sherlock rubbed his eyes and shut them for a few moments, "Lost in thought. Anyway," His eyes fluttered open and landed on John, "What time shall we go to the cinema then?"

"Anytime." John replied.

"Alright, let's go." He got up and grabbed his tea and poured it all down in to his mouth and slammed it down on to the table. Before John could say another word Sherlock had began to haul him up by the arm and nearly dragged the man out of the shop and out into the chilly London air.

As he raised his arm to hail a cab as John started sputtering, "Gentle! Easy! You can't just drag me around with you!" He said brushing his hands over the arms of his jacket and stood up straighter.

"I was excited." Sherlock sniffed and nearly dove into a cab, deciding against pulling John in with him. He patiently waited though careful not to get caught back up in thought. John slid in next to his friend looking at him curiously. "What? It's not everyday I get to go to the cinema with Doctor Watson." He muttered and folded his hands neatly on his lap.

"You just seem very . . . different, is all." John said nonchalantly. Sherlock inaudibly snorted and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Do you . . . want to talk about it?"

"Oh for God's sake." Sherlock growled, "Nothing is wrong." He scowled at John barely realizing that it was in fact _John_, whom had dealt with his fits and current mood-swings far too much. Sherlock himself couldn't even explain why he was being so _different._ It must've just been his case; the first case that he couldn't immediately come up with a some sort of lead. It tugged strongly on his nerves and he felt completely haywire.

"Okay." John whispered, obviously affronted. Sherlock bit back an apology hoping John would just realize that it was habitual of him. John did know but he inwardly wished that Sherlock would show his soft caring personality more often than once.

They sat silently for the rest of the drive, both men staring at the windows blankly - nothing to say to each other. John's steam slowly cooled off as he thought it all through and tried to just shake it off completely and enjoy the rest of the day that lied ahead of him. "Murder mystery I would presume?" John asked precipitously.

"Well, it is the genre of film that I can most well tolerate for an hour or more." He replied after a small pause of silence. A small smile forced itself on to John's lips as if trying to force an atmosphere of comfort. "You're buying the popcorn." Sherlock smiled back, more genuinely and suddenly flung himself from the cab.

John nearly had a heart attack before he realized that they had met their destination. He sighed in relief and ambled out of his side and met up with his friend by the pavement leading to the rather large theater. Sherlock pulled his folded hands up by his face and breathed on them in attempts to warm them up.

John subconsciously grabbed Sherlock's hands in his and squeezed them, causing Sherlock to stop abruptly. John slightly blushed now fully aware of what he was doing, "Sorry your hands were cold and mine were . . . warm." He quickly let go of Sherlock's hands and stuffed his hastily in to his pockets.

"They _are_ cold." Sherlock said softly, gazing at the army doctor. He then hesitantly took John's hand in his, firmly, keeping his other hand in the warmth of his coat pocket. Alarmed by the shocking act, John bit on the insides of his cheeks but kept his hand in Sherlock's as they inched inside of the movie theater. He was surprised that he didn't redden from embarrassment since he was walking in to a public building holding hands with another man. Of course it was only Sherlock and the man seemed fragile and ready to explode so John didn't want to hurt his feelings by pulling away his hand.

Eventually as they came upon the desk to purchase their tickets both of their hands slipped away from the other and became occupied instead small slips of papers identifying the film they were going to watch. It was, indeed, a mystery. Horror and thriller too.

x

Sherlock had managed to keep his hasty commentary to a minimum for John's sake. Half way through the movie Sherlock had huffed and murmured the obvious ending to the film causing an agitated sigh from his companion whom got up, "I'm going to the bathroom." John grumbled irritably.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, looking slightly guilty; though feeling throughly relieved when John glanced back at Sherlock with a small grin. He quietly slipped past the long row of seats and disappeared through the exit.

Sherlock, with John's new absence, started to go off muttering angrily over the flaws of the movie. He nearly started a fight with a bloak two rows ahead of him who continually shushed him and nearly threw his popcorn at him. Sherlock had swiftly deduced that the man's wife was cheating on him and that he had but three hours ago been fired from his current career as a social worker. So Sherlock decided not to angrily sneer his deduction and make the man have a nervous break down in which would be highly likely.

It wasn't until the movie was drawing to an ending that the detective realized John's seat was still vacant. His eyes slowly inched over the whole theater, only a quarter of the seats occupied for the certain film, and finally got to his feet and started down the aisle. He wasn't sure what John could have possibly been doing for a half an hour.

He strode down the narrow hallways that connected each small individual theater until he reached the men's restroom. When he pressed inside it was a silent place completely void from people. Something caught his eye almost immediately, the third to last stall was the only one closed, yet when Sherlock swooped down to check underneath the stalls he saw no feet to confirm the presence of another person.

He cautiously stepped further in to bathroom and approached the door. He carefully grabbed the top of the stall and hauled himself up and over the door and landed with both feet on the seat of the toilet. He then unlatched the lock on the door and sauntered back out in the open area and began to examine the scene with extreme focus.

He noticed the slight mark of a mud imprint from the toes of the bottom of a shoe. Sherlock swiped his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and examined it more closely. He had already known but he needed the confirmation that it was indeed a mark from John's boot. The pressure showed that someone had dragged him from the stall and he kicked at the door in struggle.

Sherlock took a deep breath trying to press down the emotion while he was still investigating the scene in front of him. Emotion only brought him down and distracted him from what he needed to observe. His eyes quickly caught the small, and well expected, folded white note taped in the back of the stall.

He snatched it up and unfolded it, again trying to keep his emotion pushed away for the time being, and scanned over the note.

_I took your pet for a walk. I'll drop him off later._

_ xoxo Moriarty_


	2. Prints

**Sorry, this is a bit short. I usually don't make that long of chapters, forgive me. Hope you guys enjoy this! It's my first Johnlock fanfiction. Reviews are loved and if you do leave a review I will love you forever with rainbows and puppies and unicorns. **

"Footage! Where is the footage?" Sherlock shouted angrily at the employee that seemed to only know how to shovel popcorn into a bag. "You have security cameras posted nearly everywhere and you're telling me the footage isn't there?!" Sherlock was outraged, even though in the back of his mind he knew it was the work of the infamous Moriarty whom had most likely disabled the cameras while he gone to do his dirty work. Detective Inspector Lestrade quickly seized Sherlock by the arm and pulled him away from the terrified woman.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down. Collect yourself. I know this is John instead of just any other person but you need to try to treat it similarly; at least on the crime scene." Lestrade tried to talk in a calming fashion but it only agitated the consulting detective further. For the first time in a while Lestrade registered what he thought to be emotion in the eyes of such a heartless man. Sherlock remained silent, eyebrows drawn together, and took a small breath. He looked almost distraught but he tried with great effort to hide it in public in front of all the imbeciles.

"As long as Anderson doesn't come . . ." He muttered in a nearly childish tone.

Lestrade sighed and nodded his head, "Just go ahead and get some evidence, we'll be needing it. This case is worth more than pride, Sherlock, so try your best to fathom what has happened." He gave a sympathetic glance and left Sherlock to stand alone in the minuscule theater lobby. He slowly pressed his finger tips against his temples and rubbed circles in to them as a method of trying to fully process and investigate the incident that had bestowed him.

He slowly crumpled on to the uncomfortable flooring, drawing his hands over his face, trying with as much power as he could sum up to think. He had gotten basically all he could when he had spent a half an hour in the bathroom and prancing up and down the hallways before he phoned Lestrade in defeat. It was finally sinking in that John had actually been smuggled away from him and Sherlock couldn't bare it without feeling emotion lurch through his body.

He tried to subside them as he once again wandered aimlessly around the small scene that had fortunately been rid of any unofficial and irritating people. Not even Sergeant Donovan was there to shout at him and call him a freak. Sherlock decided to start back in the bathroom where he had found the first evidence of the kidnapping of his dear friend John Watson. His eyes traced the tiled flooring carefully, his breath hitching when he spotted the same print of mud on the thin strip of wall dividing the sinks and the entrance. 'How could I have missed that?' He thought angrily.

He squatted down raking his eyes over it several times inserting the mental picture in to his mind and trying to come up with something out of this. It was quite obvious he had been hauled up with a pretty hefty man, probably carrying the army doctor with an arm around the middle of his torso and another arm around his neck in a choke hold. John had struggled against being hauled away kicking the stall door and wall with much force that he had even chipped off some of the paint from the bricks of the walls in his efforts.

At the angle and position of the print it also looked as he struggled he had possibly broken his ankle at the attempts to flee. Sherlock tried to keep that small fact out of his emotion files and keep them in only work preferences. He swung himself around going over the area again, pulling out a flash light Lestrade had lent him, and looked again hoping the better lighting would reveal something else.

With his mind focused he was easily able to notice a trace of a larger print tucked back away slightly behind the trash can that had been shoved into the corner by the full length mirror. Sherlock nudged the trash can away with his foot and squatted down to examine the newly found print carefully. It was quite large and wasn't of mud but something else. He pulled out one of his spare plastic trays and brushed the substance from the footprint on the tray and pressed a identical tray on top of it and slid it in to a zip lock bag.

He stood back up, carefully pushing the bag into his coat pocket, and brushed his eyes over the rest of the scene. Even with his flashlight he fond no more evidence, only a few fingerprints that were obviously John's and it was too much for Sherlock to look at. He quickly exited the restroom and went out to search for Lestrade to give him permission to do his own investigation.

x

Sherlock wasted no time getting out of the cinema and getting a cab. He pulled out his phone and dialed Molly Hooper's number hoping, like usual, that she'd pick up. She did.

"Sherlock, hey." She greeted and a slightly nervous voice. It was a her normal voice to Sherlock, but he didn't realize it was only like that when she was talking to him.

"Molly, are you at Bart's? I need to go down there to run some labs." He said not going in to any type of normal conversation.

"Well I already finished up work and am about to leave-" She started.

"Stay. They'll kick me out if you're not there to grant me permission. Thanks. Bye." He muttered and ended the phone call leaving poor Molly to go back and slip her lab coat back on and remain at work. She kept in mind that she'd be able to watch Sherlock without him noticing, whenever the man was in a case he barely noticed her. She admired that about him; his commitment. Only to work though, nothing else, except maybe John . . .

Sherlock turned up within five minutes, barely saying in words in greeting as he rushed past Molly who had tried again with lipstick. She become suddenly aware at the absence of Sherlock's usual companion. She followed him silently in to the lab room where he already began pulled things in to place and setting up a microscope. He took out a small slide from his pocket and pushed it beneath the microscope.

"Molly, would you get me some coffee? Two sugars, black." He demanded rather than asked.

"Okay." She said bashfully and turned to leave. He seemed more uptight and concentrated than usual, if that was at all possible. She ventured the simple thought that he might've gotten in to a small fight or disagreement with John and resorted to burying himself in to his work while letting both himself and John cool down. Molly could easily see how much they both cared for each other, and whether they liked it or not they closely resemble that of an actual _couple._ She smiled at the funny thought - though feeling slight envy of John.

When Molly returned with a small teal mug of coffee she found Sherlock hunched over on his stool with his hands intertwined tightly in his curls. His face was faced down and he remained in a idle position visibly shaking. It frightened Molly and she slowly made her way over to the detective, careful not to put him in to a fit of screaming and scolding, and set his mug down by a stack of papers by him, "Sherlock?"

He stopped shaking and lifted his head slowly and turned to look at Molly. His eyes had become slightly red around the rims and his face had become paler than usual. He let out a small breath and almost looked embarrassed to be caught in such a state, "Sorry. I'm just . . . tired." He murmured and wrapped his thin fingers around the mug Molly had supplied.

"Just tired?" Molly said, feeling a bit uneasy about going to far in a touchy subject, "You seem more than just that."

His jaw clenched for a few seconds then he lifted his mug to his lips and sipped for a few moments before setting it back down by his work, "Just tired." He said without looking at Molly. She figured it would be too risky to press further on the matter so she just politely nodded and slipped out of the room to make her own self some coffee so she'd be able to get home and be able to stay up late enough to finish pesky paperwork.

She had left and just as the doors shut behind her streams of tears began to trickle down those sharp pale cheekbones of Sherlock's, and his lips trembled as he tried with great effort to hold back the sobs compressed inside his throat. "John." He whispered, pressing his hands over his face.

He took deep breaths, swiping the sleeve of his coat over his face to rid the tears, and pressed his eye back up against the microscope and continued to work diligently. He was determined to find John and wrap his hands around the throat of the bastard had taken him. Moriarty.

"I have to leave in an hour. I hope that's long enough for you to be able to work." Molly's voice nearly made Sherlock jump. He leaned back, away from the microscope, and glanced at her.

"Molly." He said, his voice slightly wavering.

"What?" Her voice immediately softened at the expression of Sherlock's face and the sound of his voice. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment before answering with a stronger voice, "John's been abducted."


	3. Cabin

**Please review so I know how I am doing. Thanks bunches c:**

* * *

Sherlock hadn't invited Molly over for tea, she more so invited herself but it was basically as if Sherlock had asked since he didn't comment further on it. She had ushered him in to a cab and they were off to Baker street. Sherlock didn't really know what to think of it, he remained silent the entire ride over, and when he stepped back in to his flat another huge wall of realization hit him. His eyes wandered over to the arm chair that had been pushed over by the fire place, where John had been sitting this morning before being carted off for the day.

"Molly." Sherlock finally managed to push out, "I don't think I can stay here until I find . . . him."

"Just sit, I'll make us tea." Molly instructed rather confidently. She finally had an excuse to be in Sherlock's flat, and not to mention have Sherlock talk to her in a some-what nice manner. Sherlock stumbled over to the couch that lie beneath the yellow spray-painted smiley face and collapsed on to it. He lifted up his feet and slipped off his shoes and let them drop on to the ground. He wiggled out of his large dark overcoat, shedding it on to the ground, and curled up against the back of the couch.

Molly stepped quietly in to the sitting room and pulled up a chair for herself by Sherlock, "Tea." She said in a small delicate voice. He sighed and nestled his face further in to the couch cushions trying to make it clear he didn't want any company right now, nor tea. "Come on, Sherlock. We both know John will turn up sooner or later, especially with you on his case, so just enjoy the evening instead of fretting."

Sherlock sat straight up with his eyes cutting in to Molly, "As if you'd have any idea what I'm going through nor do you realize how _serious_ this is! It's John, Molly!" He exclaimed, clenching both of his hands in to fists.

Molly seemed un-phased, she was used to Sherlock's angry outbursts, and she just set the second tea cup in to Sherlock lap and took a swift sip of her own, "So, John means a lot then?" She pursed her lips slightly hoping Sherlock would give in to her bait.

"Of course he does!" Sherlock growled, restraining himself from rolling his eyes. This answer sparked a small smile on Molly's lips. "What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Are you amused by this?" He was becoming dangerously irritated at how Molly seemed so amused and nonchalant about the disappearance of a close friend.

"No. I just think it is very pleasant you've found someone in your life that has brought out emotions in you." She smiled, "It is sad that you've waited till now to fully come out of your heartless little shell. When the one person who has slowly pulled you from it has been pulled away himself." The smile disappeared from her face as it took on a more grave tone, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really do hope you find him." She got up, leaving her tea cup on the coffee table, and left the flat without further word.

Sherlock strung his fingers around his cup and lifted it to his mouth, taking a moment to sweep his eyes over the vacant room, and drank down all the tea in one swig. He pulled himself on to his feet and pushed himself further to set both his and Molly's cup in the sink. He then forced himself forward in to his room so he could change in to his pajamas. He picked out a soft striped pair that had been folded and stack with a pile of clothes that John had laundered. He absent mindedly rubbed them with his thumbs murmuring 'John' softly until he caught himself and flung the pair in the corner of his room and found himself a pair that had already been packed in to his drawers by himself.

He put them on along with a loosely fitting cotton shirt and started back out in to the kitchen. He flung open their fridge ignoring his new set of pinkies from the morgue and found a singular stringed cheese and ambled out in to the sitting room where he resumed his spot on the couch. He nibbled on his simple snack whilst gazing that the telly that was still on and turned to news. He scowled when the case of the three murdered twenty-year-olds came on, "Not even solved!" He growled.

He knew what had happened though. As he spent the day with John his mind slowly went through it's own process of deduction and he had figured out that the three people were all violently murdered by a pack of wolves. They weren't found in their vacation cabin up in Whales where the murder had occurred, because someone had dragged their bodies away, far away. The wolves weren't any ordinary wolves either, they were trained and then sent upon the poor victims so their bodies would be sold to be consumed by unsuspecting customers in Norway for an outrageous price. Any normal person would shiver and feel some nausea after such a conclusion but it only made Sherlock slightly more content that he'd gotten that case out of the way so he could further focus on John.

_Dammit. John. Gone and lost. Somewhere he was sitting probably being whipped and sliced up by some henchmen of Moriarty's. _"John." He whispered. He jolted off the couch and swiped up his coat and threw it on over his pajamas and pushed on his shoes hastily then was out. He didn't hail a cab but just continued down the pavement with his head swimming with determination. He tried to think as hard as possible, think of everything he had observed. He had to find John, who knew what Moriarty was doing to him.

x

Sherlock found himself, a few hours later, standing the end of a path that would lead through a short trip of woods and finally to an abandoned cabin in Whales. This was his only lead and his only chance at finding John. His eyes slowly inched over the scenery as he pushed himself forward over the path. He made sure to keep his foot steps light and silent. He hoped desperately that Moriarty hadn't already taken the liberty, if he was hiding here in the first place, to set up cameras in the trees.

The chilly autumn air sliced at his uncovered face and even stabbed through his thin pajamas that he still didn't bother to change. How comical it would look if he were to be found my his nemesis in his night clothes and a mysterious black coat. He buttoned up his coat to the collar and veered off to the side of the path trying to be less obvious. He took his time up the path trying to be as discreet as possible, keeping himself alert of any figures lurking in the dark of the night behind the throngs of trees.

As the faint outline of the cabin came in to view Sherlock slunk off the trail and behind the trees. He squinted at it, feeling uneasiness pour over himself, there were very dim lights spilling from the two front windows. Candle lights, Sherlock conjectured. Or maybe a lantern, it was hard to tell. He crept forward, making sure to stay behind the trees hidden from anyone the happened to be peering out in to the woods. He stood very still as he kept his eyes trained on the cabin waiting for some sort of evidence to support his theory.

Suddenly there was the faintest shadow that passed by the window. Although it was only seconds and was quite hard to make out, Sherlock easily picked it out to be a bulky man around 6"4 and weighing around two hundred and seventy five pounds. It was the same man that had made that one footprint in the theater bathroom, he just knew. It wasn't instinct it was pure knowledge.

Sherlock carefully slipped further back in to the trees until he couldn't see the cabin any longer and lowered himself on to his bottom. He drew his coat up over his head and pulled out his phone, already have changing it to a low backlight setting, and texted Lestrade. He texted him the address of the cabin and a very brief summary of what was going on. He didn't necessarily need Lestrade to help him with what he was about to do but it was always reassuring to know backup was on the way.

He tucked his phone safely back in his pocket and started back up to the cabin, breaking from the woods, and brushed past the porch of the structure and around the side. He noticed a camera planted on the side, luckily facing away from him, just below a window. The camera then started to move, towards him, slowly but surely. Sherlock quickly grabbed a hold the ledge of the window and hauled himself up until his whole body was out of the view of the camera.

He used all the muscle and power in his forearms to keep himself up at the window. He peered inside of it to see a small dark room with a single cot pushed up against the only door. There was a small wooden desk in the corner adjacent to the bed. It was simple and didn't look as if anyone accompanied it currently so he carefully and slowly pushed it open, surprised it wasn't locked, and elegantly landed inside. He took a few small and quiet breaths feeling his adrenaline beginning to rise. He was about to rescue John.

He became uneasy at how easy it was to enter this place and had a pressing feeling that this was how Moriarty wanted it. The sick man had planned this all out just like a fairy tale. Sherlock pushed this thought away and focused on the most pressing objective which was to find John and get him out of there safe and sound.

He stepped forward very slowly trying not to cause the floorboards beneath his feet to creak. He froze as he heard heavy footsteps thunder up a set of stairs and then towards the room he was now in, but luckily they passed the room without any stop or hesitation and continued. Sherlock began to pull open the door, pushing the cot back at the same time, and peeked out to see a dimly lit hallway with tacky wallpaper from the seventies. He saw the bulky man stop at the end of the hallway, causing Sherlock to inch away from the door, but the man didn't stop because he had heard the detective but because he had reached the door to the room where his job was to be carried out.

Sherlock reached in to the pocket of his coat and pulled out his old dart gun he'd summoned from underneath the couch cushions at the flat. He pressed the door open further and peeked his head out to the other side of the hallway from where the rather big-built man had come from. He saw the glimpse of a table where two men sat talking too low for Sherlock to hear. Neither of them were Moriarty but were all dressed in rough outfits, ripped v-necks and tattered jeans. One held a cigarette in his hand while glancing down at a small piece of paper.

Sherlock didn't have time to deduct who they where and what there purpose was so he quickly took them both out with his dart gun and slipped out in to the hallway where he felt uncomfortably vulnerable. He stepped to the other side of the hallway and pressed himself up against the wall, his eyes darting around nervously, and he inched down the wall until he came to the door the man had entered.

He apprehensively grasped the door knob whilst clutching his dart gun in his other hand. With on swift movement he flung open the door and shot darts at the two standing men in the room. They both went down within seconds, the only noise was their heavy bodies hitting the floor. Sherlock shut the door quickly behind him observing at first the walls were padded with sound proof material. Then as his eyes centered on what lay in the middle of the room he knew why.

_"John."_


	4. Rescue

Sherlock's whole body trembled as his eyes took in the scene that lay before him. His best friend lied on a metal examination table that looked brand new and recently installed. John's hands and feet were bound down to the table by leather straps and it was clear the man struggled fiercely by the deepened marks on his wrists and ankles. The army doctor had been broken and beaten; deep cuts ran from his forehead all the way down to his mid-torso. He wore a ragged and bloodied undershirt and had been stripped down to his pants.

There were several dark brown and purple bruises running up John's bare legs and a nasty mark near his heel and ankle where it looked as though a tendon had been very injured or even snapped. His whole body looked as though it had been thrown off a building in to a pit of pointed rocks.

Sherlock suddenly felt a pain in his throat and realized he hadn't been breathing. He let out a shaky breath and pushed himself forward. His long and slender fingers carefully grazed his friend's beaten body as if to make sure this was real. His fingers found John's wrist and he forced open the strap containing it and lifted John's arm in to his grasp and checked to see that he still had a pulse.

He stood there for several moments clutching John's arm in his hands, tenderly rubbing circles on his skin with his thumbs. Then he snapped to his senses and began forcing off the other three straps that held the army doctor down to the table. He shook John as lightly as he could without hurting his wounds, but he remained unconscious. Sherlock yanked his coat off from himself and pulled it under John and tied the sleeves around his neck.

Sherlock then gently hauled John over his shoulder and approached the door hesitantly. He rested his head against John's limp body feeling the strange sensation of warm drips of water trickling down his face. "You're okay." He whispered to John, pressing his face into his hip. He then pulled the door open and carefully stepped outside into the narrow hallway.

He didn't know how he'd pull this off, he didn't even know where to go. He wasn't sure who to expect to pop out of a doorway, most likely a maniac with a insane smile and a fully automatic gun. Sherlock also felt quite disabled with one arm tightly clutching the small feeble army doctor. His shoulder had already begun to ache and he pulled John down in to both of his arms, one arm under his shoulder and neck and the other under his knees.

He stepped quietly down the hallway, often glancing behind him, and turned around in to the room where he had shot the two men. They both still remained there, slumped over the table they had been sitting at, blood trickling in to a pool around their mouths. Sherlock took a second to smile at the accuracy of his shots before hurrying across the room in search for some sort of quick and easy exit.

He didn't want to be more obvious of his whereabouts then he already was and take the front door out in to the porch, but it was the first exit he found he didn't want to lose any time. He needed to get John home as soon as possible to dress his wounds and free him from the immediate danger they both faced at the current time.

Sherlock traipsed down another narrow hallway before reaching a small screen door. The front door, Sherlock sighed, it'd have to do. He didn't bother trying to open it so he just kicked it down with as much strength as he could muster. He had to kick a couple of times before he was able to knock it off its hinges and on to the front porch. To much of Sherlock's dismay there stood the small insane man whom was named Moriarty.

He wasn't wearing his usual suit and tie, no, he was in a simple flannel shirt and jeans as if he were truly having a fall vacation in his cabin in Whales. "_Sherlock._" He greeted in the gut wrenching voice of his, "I told you I'd drop him off for you. What an inconvenience for you to have to pick him up yourself. You didn't even have time to change out of your sleeping items." He grinned, his gaze was uncanny.

Sherlock tried with great restraint not to drop John and strangle that sick little man then and there, "Yes, I have come to get my _friend_. Now I am leaving, if you don't mind." He said as calmly as possible.

"Oh, don't you want to stay have some tea?" Moriarty insisted, daring to take a step forward.

"No." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Too bad." Moriarty cooed and three red dots flickered on to Sherlock's chest and on John's back. "Well, no time to chat."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheeks and hoped with to a great extent that back up was on its way because for once the curly-haired detective didn't know what his next step was and it could cause both his and John's life. "Fine. Let's have that tea." Sherlock murmured with a deep hate in his eyes. Moriarty smiled even wider and stuck his hands in to his pockets; he started to giggle as if Sherlock had made a cute pun.

"No, no. I was only just _teasing_. Silly, silly boy. Had to take the front door, didn't you?" The crazy man chirped. His seemingly neutral clothing slowly became less affective as his true acts of mental insanity began to show through his stretched smile and wild merriment in murder. Moriarty stepped forward and reached to place a hand on John's pale and bruised calf, "Such a shame what poor Johnny had to go through. Too bad you weren't there in time before one of my men decided it'd be fun to re-injure his bullet wound." He whispered with a slight shake of his head as if he were honestly sorrowed by this.

Sherlock felt his teeth grind against each other, "Just let us go, you sick conniving bastard." He growled, ignoring the red sights that still danced across his chest threateningly. Moriarty sighed as if Sherlock's anger was such an inconvenience to his mood, his hand fell from its place on John and he took a cautious step backward.

"For now, I will let you both move on with your pitiful and dull lives; but don't think this is the last time we come against each other, Sherlock. I do indeed hear sounds of a car rolling up the drive, so I must be going before Mr. Lestrade gets here and attempts to arrest me. Goodbye." He said in a sing-song voice and brushed hastily past Sherlock and back in to the cabin. The red dots vanished.

Sherlock begun to hear the sound Moriarty had described - the faint sound of tires treading over gravel. When he saw the abnormal black police car it confirmed his belief that Lestrade had come. Perhaps just in time too.

Sherlock rushed forward, clutching tightly on to his companion slung over his shoulder, and met Lestrade as he exited the vehicle with younger looking female officer. "Jesus Christ!" He shouted as his eyes swept over John, "What the hell happened?"

"Moriarty. Nope don't look for him, we need to get John home right now." Sherlock spoke quickly and had bumped past the Detective Inspector to open the back car door and carefully settle John inside.

"No way! We need to get him to a hospital!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"No, we're going to a little house a small bit south of here, one of Mycroft's many places, where I will tend to John and wait until he's ready to journey back to London." Sherlock justified. Lestrade noticed the expression on Sherlock's face registered at both terror and relief, so he decided to trust Sherlock to take care of John.

"Fine, no use arguing with you." Lestrade grumbled as he got in to the driver's seat, "Just give me the address and let's get the hell out of here."

x

When they arrived at the small little house that sat on a rather empty road Sherlock didn't waste time getting out of the car and carrying the still unconscious John inside. Sherlock didn't even give Lestrade time to wish him luck or say his goodbye's. He pulled the house key out from underneath the rug unlocking and opening the door.

He tried not to let the fact that he was using something of Mycroft's gnaw at him. He rarely ever let Mycroft be assistance of him, it was annoying when his elder brother had something to hold over his head; but this was a very good exception and there was no way Sherlock was going to put his childishly feud in to play right now. John is who mattered the most to Sherlock right now.

The place was small and a bit closed in but it was enough for now and was the closest place Sherlock could think of. He didn't trust doctor's jabbing around at his friend and John didn't seem to be in any fatal danger so it seemed most logical to tend to him by himself. He set John in on the soft beige couch and pulled a dusty and musty smelling blanket out from behind the couch. He shook it a bit hoping to rid a good amount of the dust and tucked it carefully over John's shoulders.

He wished John would wake up soon and be able to help Sherlock take care of his wounds without carrying him around every where.

Sherlock paced around the small carpeted living room for around an hour just thinking of what he was going to do and how. Within that hour Mycroft had texted him, obviously knowing Sherlock had given in to his brother's help thanks this his handy-dandy security cameras, and asked him what had happened and if he was okay.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he saw it and thought it would be too much to actually respond to him now. He grabbed his phone and tucked it away in the small desk drawer in the corner of the room, then sat at the small wooden chair that had been pushed up under it. He sat watching his poor beaten John, he wanted to hold him in his arms and comfort him but he couldn't bring himself to it. The fact that his own nemesis had caused this to John made him feel painfully responsible for it all.

x

After a couple of hours of John still remaining in sleep, Sherlock decided to start to work on his cuts like he should have addressed when he first arrived at the house. He folded the blanket that he'd put over John down to his knees. He also removed his own coat from his friend and then removed the blood-crusted and tattered undershirt also. He winced as he saw the gashed on John's chest and abdomen. Sherlock reached over to turn on the lamp for better light, "Oh, John." Sherlock murmured, his baritone voice cracking.

His cold fingertips traced over the cuts gently and he froze when a tremble went through John's body, "John?" Sherlock spoke softly, reaching his hand up to touch his friend's cheek.

John's eyes shot open and his whole body went tense and his arms flung upward and he started to flail around, shouting awful things, before Sherlock held him down and attempted to calm him, "John! It's okay! It's me, Sherlock. You're safe now." He cupped his friend's soft scarred face in both of his hands. John relaxed, his eyes turning wide with relief and pain.

"Oh my God, Sherlock." He said his voice shaking. Sherlock, ignoring that fact John had delicate and sensitive wounds all over his body, grasped him in to tight and warm embrace. John took a few moments to lift his arms and return it, his hands clutched tightly on to Sherlock's shirt. John didn't pay attention to the pain all over his body but kept Sherlock in the hold for several minutes before finally gently letting go and sighing heavily in relief. "You're okay. He told me you were...that he'd..." John couldn't finish.

"He lied. Look at you, John. As if I'm the one you should worry about." Sherlock whispered, looking at John with great concern laced in his icy blue eyes. "We need to get you cleaned up and dress all of your wounds. I've got painkillers and plenty of bandages stocked up in the bathroom."

John blinked then suddenly became aware of the surroundings and how they were completely different, "Where...are we?" He mumbled as his eyes caught the small hallway that led to the single bedroom, bathroom, and small tiled kitchen.

"A house in southern Whales." Sherlock said simply. "Let's go to the bathroom, shall we?"

John nodded stiffly and tried to pull himself up but couldn't without wincing, quite visibly, in pain. Sherlock came to his aid instantly, helping him up on to his feet. John's legs trembled greatly beneath him and he tried to hide the tears that began welling up in his eyes, the pain was washing over him in unbearable waves. "John, let me carry you." Sherlock murmured as he held him up by his waist.

"No, no. I'm just . . . a bit weak." He breathed. He took a few small steps forwards before his legs completely gave out and Sherlock lugged him up in to his arms without question. John huffed stubbornly but obediently wrapped both arms around Sherlock's neck. Before Sherlock entered the bathroom and he pressed John more tightly against him and buried his face in to John's soft blonde-gray hair, "John, I'm so sorry this happened. I'm so sorry." He murmured.

John lifted his head to look in to his friend's deep blue eyes; their faces were so close the tips of their noses brush against one anothers. "I'm just glad you're here now." John whispered, pressing his head in to the detective's shoulder.

"Me too." Sherlock whispered, barely audible.


	5. Pajamas

**A/N: I had a busy last two days and I've spent as much time as I could on this last night. I reserved this chapter for some fluff since that hasn't been too much in the story yet. The next chapter will most likely be _fluffy_ too. Thank you gracious souls for reading and for those of you who reviewed! I absolutely love reviews. Let me know how I did with my fluff please! I'm never too talented with romance. c:**

* * *

John winced as Sherlock fumbled to remove his old bandages, "Sorry." Sherlock mumbled as he tossed them in to the waste basket. He shook his head sadly as John's wounds continued to bleed. He grabbed a handful of gauze and pressed them over the gash on his friend's stomach.

It'd been two days and they both remained at the small house for the time being, deciding not to venture home until there was visible improvement in John's health. Sherlock had stooped low enough and allowed Mycroft to have one of his servants travel to deliver groceries and other supplies needed. John often slept and even when he was awake he was quiet and off in another world.

"John."

The army doctor's eyes lulled down to the detective squatted in front of him trying to adjust the new bandages over the gauze he'd placed. "Hmm." He scooted forward so Sherlock could reach behind him and continue wrapping the bandages around him. He failed to surpress a groan as another dull pain washed over him.

Sherlock tried not to stare up at him with immense pity and concern. "I'm sorry." He murmured, finishing the bandage. He stood up and held out his hands for John, whom took them gratefully and pulled himself up with a slight grunt. "How's your ankle?"

"Lots better." John replied, "Really." He added when he saw Sherlock was unconvinced. He let go of Sherlock's hands and balanced on his own to show how he's healed but he was mistaken and would've collapsed to the ground if Sherlock hadn't lunged forward to catch him. He didn't say that he was right like he normally would but just helped him out of the bathroom and in to the bedroom.

"Get some rest. It is a bit late anyways." Sherlock ordered as he helped John up in the bed. John sighed as he settled himself under his covers; his legs feeling painfully sore even though he'd just taken more pain medicine. He felt restless with how he'd been lying in bed for the past two days with nothing to do but rest and eat oatmeal and take medicine. He might as well been at a hospital, they would at least have had a telly installed in the room that he could watch.

Even though Sherlock was always there and only left to take short walks and even pick up groceries, which was quite rare for him, John felt lonely. Nearly as lonely as he had felt at that cursed cabin in that dreadful room where he'd been whipped, cut at, burned, and much more terrible practices of torture. He still hadn't talked about any of what happened to him with Sherlock, and the detective didn't ask yet either so it was unnecessary to discuss it now.

"Sherlock." John called as the man had turned to leave. Sherlock turned around and lifted his chin acknowledging John. "Would you...would you stay here with me?" His voice has softened and he felt himself blush slightly.

"Of course." Sherlock replied and slowly walked around the bed and climbed up next to John and sat up against the head-board.

John smiled and scooted closer to his friend and rested his head on his lap, "Thanks." He murmured.

Sherlock felt his own lips lift in to that of a warm and smile and he felt something stir in his stomach, _like butterflies._ He pushed a pillow behind his back and nestled down a bit to where John's head now rested on his stomach and to where he felt more comfortable. John sighed contentedly and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's torso feeling a great feeling of safety. Sherlock's smile grew and he began to gently stroke John's soft hair comfortingly and after John drifted off in to sleep Sherlock also grew tired and fell asleep himself.

x

Sherlock was waken up with a jolt as something crashed in to his side. His eyes flew open to see John kicking and flailing about. He was shouting out, "Stop! I won't tell you! Stop!"

Sherlock was being kicked at as he tried to hold his friend down, "John." He murmured in to his ear. As Sherlock held him until he became conscious and settled down, breathing heavily. "John, are you okay?" Sherlock whispered, pulling the small fragile man up to his chest holding him carefully. John didn't answer until he'd relaxed completely and pulled his face in to Sherlock's chest.

"Yeah. I'm okay." He answered letting out a small breath of relief.

"No you're not." Sherlock murmured, pressing John closer. "But you will be. I promise."

"I will be because you're here." John whispered, slowly drifting back in to sleep. When Sherlock assumed John had fallen completely back asleep he slowly wiggled out from underneath him and placed him down on the bed and tucked him in snuggly. Before Sherlock could push himself off the bed, and go out in to the living room to work on writing up more for the case, a hand grabbed the sleeve of his violet dress shirt.

"John?" Sherlock stopped and looked down to the still body in the bed, his hand now clutched his clothing.

"Stay. Please." John pleaded like a frightened child in the night. Sherlock obediently crawled back next to his friend and pulled a thin quilt over himself and kicked off the shoes he'd still had on. He felt another jolt of _butterflies_ as John rolled over snuggled up against Sherlock. His face pressed in to his shoulder and wrapped his right arm around the detective tightly. "You're warm, 'm cold." John mumbled.

Sherlock pulled his quilt over John and pulled his small body closer to him, "Are you warm now? Do I need to fetch more blankets?" Sherlock asked gently.

"Mm, good." John replied, cuddling even closer. Sherlock stiffened with surprise but quickly relaxed not wanting to alarm John. John had never been this close to him and he'd never felt such a warm ball of emotion in his chest before. He lightly traced his finger over John's face tenderly humming softly.

He stayed awake most of the night, up with his thoughts. He couldn't push away his thoughts long enough to drift back in to sleep until it was nearly time to wake up. His thoughts had died down and he slipped away in to a light sleep.

Just as he had done so John slowly began to arouse, yawning and slowly peeling open his eyes. He tensed expecting to still be strapped to that freezing metal tables and he jerked around his breath quickening but his eyes caught sight of the dimly lit bedroom and he realized once again that he was safe. He relaxed against the bed - and Sherlock. He felt a smile play subconsciously on his lips, he admired how warm and comforting his friend was. He also noticed Sherlock's hand was slightly entangled in his short grey hair.

John sat up and stretched out his arms tiredly, his eyes gazing over Sherlock's asleep figure. It'd been a while since John had actually seen his friend physically sleep willingly. He often stayed awake for days on end and only slept in hour shifts when he had nothing more to do. John left him to sleep and hobbled stiffly out in to the kitchen to attempt to make himself some coffee and jam on bread. It took a good amount of excessive time and effort with his injuries but he managed and was rewarded with sitting at a comfortable kitchen chair sipping his beverage and nibbling happily at the homemade jam and toast.

At around seven-thirty John began to wash out his coffee mug, feeling his legs begin to become weak and he dropped the mug in to the sink as his knees began to buckle; but he was luckily caught by two soft and cold hands that hauled him back up, "Why are you out here by yourself?" A deep baritone voice spoke from behind him.

"I was just getting breakfast." John sighed and turned carefully to face his flatmate. He grasped the counter behind him so he could stand on his own. "Sorry if I woke you." Though John had a feeling Sherlock had been awake for a while watching him, prepared to help him if he ran in to any difficulties.

Sherlock didn't say anything but helped John out in to the living room and on to the couch. He then left the room and went in to the bathroom to fetch John some painkillers. John pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and pulled it over himself still feeling a tad bit sleepy. When Sherlock came back in with a small glass of tap water and two white pills John turned his back to him, "Mmf. No more pills." He groaned.

"Yes, John. It will make you feel better. You're a doctor, you should know this." Sherlock insisted.

John rolled his eyes and grudgingly took the pills and quickly swallowed them down with his water and crossed his arms, "I hate this." He grumbled. Sherlock frowned his eyes dropping down to the ground guiltily. "Not being...injured. More just, not being able to be up and running around with you solving crimes." John added hoping to make Sherlock feel better.

"I hate it too." Sherlock agreed quietly.

"Let's watch a movie." John said.

"A movie?" Sherlock eyed him curiously, "I don't think there are any movies here, John."

"Let's go out and rent one then." John sat up and stretched out his legs. Sherlock looked at him and opened his mouth to object and say John should better just get some more rest to let the painkillers set in but John interrupted him, "I can manage to get outside in to a cab. I'll be fine. I really do need to practice walking more if I intend on improving." He reasoned. Sherlock scowled but gave in and pulled on his coat and scarf and vanished to hunt for his shoes.

John smiled and kicked his slippers out from underneath the couch and took his time to pull himself steadily up to his feet. He made his way carefully over to the coat rack and grabbed his jacket and slung it over his pajamas not wanting to bother with getting dressed. Sherlock appeared in the hallway staring at John, humor glinting in his eyes, "You're going out in your night clothes?" A grin pulled at his mouth.

"Yes." John said crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock let out a deep chuckle and turned around and once more disappeared down the hallway. "Sherlock, oh come. Let's just go it doesn't matter what I'm wearing. You're the one who doesn't care what others think." John huffed, but when Sherlock appeared again he didn't expect him at all to have put his pj's on as well under his coat.

"Well, friends have to do ridiculous things _together_." Sherlock said with a serious face and tone but his eyes were twinkling with delight.

"Of course." John chuckled and stuff his hands in his pockets, "We look absolutely ridiculous. So let's go then."

Sherlock nodded and stepped besides him and slipped his arm around his for support and escorted him outside where a sleek black car sat in the narrow driveway. "Mycroft's car. It's not very possible to get a cab out here in the middle of no where." He explained and let John get in to the passenger's seat by himself.

Sherlock settled in to the drivers seat, shivering slightly at the cool air inside the vehicle. "Allons-y!"

"Allons-y?" John raised an eyebrow as the sociopath pulled out on to the road.

"It is French for 'let's go'." Sherlock said dully, rolling his eyes.

"Oh. 'Course, I knew that." John snorted.

x

"The Hobbit? What's that?" Sherlock peered at the electronic screen in front of him.

"How could you be human and not know what The Hobbit is?" John asked nearly gaping at Sherlock, "J.R.R Tolkien's prequel to Lord Of The Rings. Just made the movie I suppose."

"Lord Of The Rings?" Sherlock asked looking more confused - which was a weird look for him, since the man almost always knew exactly what was going on. "Let's just get this one, 'The Call'. Murder mystery possibly. Those are the most tolerable." He pushed the icon on the screen and quickly swiped his credit card in the machine and the disk in it's case popped out the slot on the side.

"We're only getting one?" John asked disappointingly.

"Fine, you can you're Ho-bit movie." Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"I don't want that one. I don't even know any of the actors in it. I've only read the books. I was thinking more like a romantic comedy." John replied swiping at the screen trying to find a suitable movie.

"A romantic comedy? My God, John." Sherlock grumbled. John just shrugged and gave up on a search for a decent movie and began to hobble off back to the car. Sherlock grabbed his movie and followed him closely, gradually slipping his hand in his. Luckily John did well with walking back to the car, not even shaking. He did however regain a small trace of his limp.

"All movie now a-days are all rubbish." John complained as he stumbled in to his seat in the car. Sherlock hid his smirk as he entered the car after John. "I just hope we can go back to our flat soon." John sighed, startling Sherlock with a pang of emotion.

"Soon, John." Sherlock answered in a low and serious voice. "Soon."


	6. Cuts

**I made this one a tad bit longer. I have no life and no school so I had plenty of time to write this one. Hope you enjoy. Thank you all for the thoroughly pleasant reviews. I have twenty-seven follows. Holy crap. **

John settled comfortably on the sofa as Sherlock fumbled angrily with the DVD player trying to get it open, "Just open you cheap piece of shit!" Sherlock shouted angrily, restraining himself from throwing the technology out the window. He pushed the button once more and it finally opened and he gave an annoyed sigh, "Stupid thing." He shoved the disk ungracefully in to the tray and pushed it back in. "Alright, finally." He got up and spun around to face John, "Do you want popcorn, John? Or tea? Or jam?"

John smiled, "Since when have you been so polite and reasonable?"

Sherlock scowled, "Fine, nothing for you. But _I'm_ going to go make _myself_ some popcorn and pour myself some good old-fashion apple juice."

"Tea for me." John called as Sherlock left the room to go fix his snack.

"Fine!" The detective called back.

John smiled to himself and slipped off his slippers and jacket. He pulled the blanket that had been wedged beneath the couch cushions out and wrapped it comfortably around himself and folded his legs up next to him. This is what John liked, a low key day with his best friend and tea. He wasn't sure he completely agreed with Sherlock's movie selection but that was the very least of his worries. His body pain had even started to slowly subside more.

When Sherlock walked in with a tray, containing a big bowl of popcorn and two cups, John hadn't realized he still had a smile stretched about his face. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at John wondering what the army doctor was so happy about, "What?" He asked a bit defensively, thinking John was smiling at something he did.

"What?" John glanced at Sherlock, his smile slowly fading.

"You were just smiling as if something were funny. Is there something on me?" He looked down to observe his pajamas to see if he had spilled something on himself.

"Oh. No, no. I'm just...content, I suppose." John replied, smile faintly returning, "Now get over here with my tea and start the movie because I sure don't know how to work the bloody DVR."

Sherlock snatched the remote from the TV stand and settled down next to John on the couch and started the movie. "Damn, this place is freeing. Where's the thermostat?" He grumbled setting the tray carefully down on the floor in front of the couch.

"Don't worry about changing it, I've already tried." John said grabbing Sherlock's arm before he could get up, "Here." He draped some of his blanket over Sherlock. The detective smiled and pulled the blanket over his shoulders and found it was too short to cover all of him so he shifted over next to John and tucked his share of the blanket under him.

"Better." Sherlock commented and the averted his attention to the movie that was starting up.

As the movie continued Sherlock had willingly shared his popcorn and even a sip of his apple juice which John was surprised to find quite good tasting. Sherlock felt an unusual drowsiness and boredom since he had already figured out the serial killer in the movie was targeting girls with blonde hair so he could cut it off and revive his shrine to his dead sister whom died due to leukemia.

He suppressed a yawn and his head slid down on the back of the couch and rested on John's shoulder, "Sister. Leukemia. Cut's off hair. Shrine." He murmured as to show why he seemed so bored and tired.

"Ah." John stared at the screen, "That would make some sense." He glanced over at Sherlock who was resting against him, his gaze was lazily on the TV. His dark curls were soft against his neck. John noticed the back of Sherlock's hand was resting against his palm and he felt the urge to slide his fingers in between his and intertwine their fingers. _Why would you do that? _John frowned. He'd been subconsciously close to Sherlock since last night for an unknown reason. He wouldn't think he would've been touching Sherlock this much and this close before this all happened.

It was weird and he found himself staring at Sherlock as all these thoughts ran through his head.

As if Sherlock had some how read John's mind he gently intertwined his fingers with John's. His eyes then closed and he cautiously nestled his face in to John's shoulder and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. John grinned and lightly squeezed Sherlock's hand in his and received subtle squeeze back from his sleepy flatmate. He didn't know what this all meant but right now he didn't want to strain himself trying to figure out.

x

The sharp sound of a gunshot pulled out memories stored deeply down in John's mind. He lurched forward expecting to hear bullets whiz above him but instead he just flopped to soft carpeted ground and looked up to see the sound had come from the movie. He rolled on to his back and pressed a hand over his chest feeling his heart beat rapidly. He let out a small sigh of relief and cursed his intense reactions to sounds of violence.

His eyes darted over to the limp figure curled up on the couch next to where he had been sitting. Sherlock. His eyes were wide open, catching John by surprise. "Are you alright, John?"

"Yes." He said in a slightly shaky voice. "Damned movie."

The movie had been replaying several times now and John wondered how long he'd been asleep.

Sherlock sat up on the couch suppressing and yawn and reached his hand out to help John back on to the couch. John stared at his large pale hand for a few moments trying to collect himself before taking it and shakily climbing back on to the couch. He felt immensely sore, "Can you help me to bed?" John asked finding it slightly difficult to breathe.

Sherlock didn't even answer but automatically was up on his feet, looking slightly dazed and sleepy, and was helping John up on to his feet. He wrapped one of his arms around John's waist and held John's hand in the other. It was a very efficient way of helping John keep his balance as he stumbled across the small sitting room and down the hallway to the bedroom.

John then climbed in to bed by himself and he stretched out tiredly on the thick and comfortable mattress. Sherlock tucked the blankets over the army doctor and he pressed a very light and unnoticeable kiss to his head before slipping away.

Thoughts were bubbling around in his mind and went out in to the kitchen and sat down to think about them and sort them out before he started to become edgy. John. What was going on? Sherlock was just noticing how much more he was around John and touching him and holding him. _He just needs healing._ Sherlock tried to convince himself but he knew there was more to it. That feeling he got when small fragile John was in his arms and there was a fuzzy feeling all over his body that he'd never felt ever before. Was this _attraction?_ Sherlock wondered. He wasn't sure what that even felt like with humans, people.

Sherlock leaned forward pressed his face in to his hands. He'd left the lights off in the kitchen so the light didn't seep in to John's room and disturb him. The darkness also aided Sherlock in thinking, it was less to see therefore less to think about or be distracted by.

Emotions. Emotions were something Sherlock struggled to understand. He knew the basic facts of them but to experience them was a challenging battle with himself. He didn't know how to go about them, usually when he got them they were simple and easy ones. Happiness, anger, disappointment, and several other little things he got occasionally; but this emotion he'd been feeling lately was more than just an annoying reminder of what something made him feel like. It was something that he should act on, and it was something he needed to figure out further since he didn't quite understand it himself.

Sherlock raked his hands through his messy bed-head curls as he struggled to grasp this concept. He just needed to find the word for this emotion, just one word and the whole subject would no longer bother his thoughts. One word. But what?

x

Sherlock stared at the blank Google page in front of him on his laptop. Dammit, was he really going to do this? He mentally slapped himself several times telling him this was beyond foolish and appalling; but he went forth and did it anyway not being able to banish away the burning curiosity.

His finger typed in five little words that looked so idiotic displayed in the search bar. It look as if a dull teenage girl had grabbed the laptop and endeavored on her desperate search for petty answers. 'Fuzzy feeling around other people'. "Damn." Sherlock cursed. This was so stupid, why was he doing this? His whole hand shook as he outstretched a finger to push the enter key. His finger tip smashed down on the key and he had the insanely sudden urge to just throw the laptop against the wall in frustration. Emotions made him this way, uptight and nervous. Unsure of everything.

He did not throw the laptop though, just clutched tightly as the screen loaded in to the search results. He forced himself to glare at screen as several sights popped up, the most repeated one Yahoo Answers.

He went through every site that popped up on the first result page and he concluded one very persistent word used in all of the articles. _Love._

Sherlock quickly shut off the lap top and flung it to the ground. He abruptly got to his feet and marched in to the bathroom shutting the door some-what quietly behind him. Love. He hastily turned on the tap in the sink to the coldest setting. He cupped his hands and collected a small pool of water and threw it up at his face waking himself up completely and shaking him from his thoughts for a few brief seconds.

He clutched the sides of the sink and lifted his head to stare at his reflection in the mirror. He looked frightened. New emotions, it scared him. He didn't know if he 'loved' John. He did suppose he felt in the most despair he's ever been in when John had turned up missing. He felt as though he'd fall apart if John was never found. He couldn't focus on finding him because all of the feelings that had coursed through him.

Even if Sherlock did _love_ John, he didn't know what'd he do about it. Would he tell John? Would it make it awkward and he'd move out of their flat? Maybe he could just keep it to himself, and just hope John always stayed with him in their flat.

Sherlock closed his eyes letting out a deep breath then he turned off he bathroom lights and walked back out in to the living room and grabbed his coat throwing it over himself. He left his scarf on the hook and stuffed his large feet in to John's small slippers he'd left by the couch. He then stepped outside, buttoning up his coat, and stepped over to the car that still sat in their drive.

Maybe if they got back to Baker street in their actual flat these pesky feelings and emotions would vanish.

Maybe.

Sherlock slid in the drivers seat. He slightly adjusted his seat wondering if one of Mycroft's men had taken it out and messed with the setting. He tried to push it back but he couldn't, something was behind the seat. Sherlock turned his whole body and came nose to nose with a rough looking man with small beady eyes. "Hello there." He sneered. Something cold connected to Sherlock's temple.

Gun.

A threatening man in the damn car. Couldn't he ever get a break? Usually something like this would excite the detective, cases always brought him to his highest moods; but this was not good timing at all. He didn't need to deal with this crap right now.

Sherlock found himself smiling at the man. "Oh, what? You're going to shoot me? I suppose my good pal Moriarty sent you?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, got that right. I'm going to spill your fucking brains all over this car and your lover will have to come out and see it. Don't worry we won't kill him, we figured he just might do that himself." The man grinned and pressed the gun harder against Sherlock's head.

Lover?

How did Moriarty even...

"You've still got you safety on." Sherlock smirked. The man frowned and turned his gun to look at it.

"No I-"

Sherlock grabbed the gun, the man held on still, then threw the man forward in to the windshield. It shattered and he rolled over the hood and landed on to the cement. Sherlock didn't waste time and crawled out over the broken glass and pursued the man whom began to rise shakily to his feet. Sherlock tackled him to ground launching his fist right into the man's skull.

He repeated this action over and over until the man seemed to be unconscious. Sherlock grabbed the gun out of the man's limp hand and tucked it in his coat pocket. He straightened up his back and glared down the limp body below. He supposed he could carry him inside and rope him as tightly as he could to a chair but it was a great urge to just shoot him in the head.

Or maybe he could just phone Lestrade. He didn't want to cause John further distress about this; it'd be better if John didn't know that any of this had happened. He dug around in his coat pockets searching for his phone, "Dammit." He growled.

He turned around to go search in the car, kicking the man in the head on the way, and luckily found it on the ground of the vehicle. He quickly dialed the number.

"Sherlock? Everything alright? I meant to call-"

"I've got a man here I need you to take to the station. Attempted murder are the charges. Same place you dropped me off, please be quick. I don't want to have to kill him." Sherlock answered coldly. He hung up not giving any time for Lestrade to actually talk or ask any questions.

x

The police arrived in a couple of hours. Sherlock checked his watch to see it was one in the morning. Normally Sherlock would have a great feeling of satisfaction and adrenaline but under these circumstances he felt strangely exhausted and frustrated. Lestrade wasn't there but many familiar faces of people who worked for him were.

There was another _very_ familiar face amongst the rest causing Sherlock's frustration to rise considerably. "Mycroft." His eyes shot daggers at his brother.

"I'm only checking in on my dear brother, whom is using one of my vacation houses." He smiled faintly.

"Good, you can go now. I'm fine, it's all okay. Go now, and make sure all of these people are gone soon. I don't want John knowing about _any_ of this." Sherlock growled hostilely at Mycroft.

"You'd better go and clean up those nasty cuts then. Otherwise John might notice and get worried when you two are _cuddling._" He said, humor flashed in his eyes. This statement made Sherlock's stomach drop and he hated that fact that he had a dumfound expression on his face. He couldn't even respond to Mycroft he just turned around and bolted in to the house, slamming the door behind him.

Cuts. Duh.

He'd dived over millions of pieces of broken glass in order to tackle that man. How could he not feel pain or noticed the cuts he'd endured on his body. Even though he'd had on his thick coat shards of the broken window still had managed to slice his skin.

Cameras. Next thought. Dammit, he should've known. Mycroft always had cameras. He started to rummaged around the house in search for the nasty little things and crush them in his grip. He was so angry and focused on finding the cameras he hadn't realized he'd stormed in to the bedroom and started throwing things around.

John awoke startled. His eyes shot over to the dark figure hastily grabbing a small object and stomping on it angrily. "Sherlock?" John croaked.

Sherlock froze in his tracks and turned around to face John. He could slightly make out his face from the moonlight spilling through the curtained windows. "I'm sorry. I-I was just looking for something." He leaned over to pick up the crushed camera in his hand. "Go to sleep." He ordered then swiftly left the room.

"Sherlock!" John called and stumbled out of the bed.

John started down the hallway, leaning against the wall for support, and saw the bathroom door closed. He leaned over to other wall and knocked lightly, "Sherlock please come out. What's going on?"

"Nothing." Came the faint response. Sherlock was fumbling quietly through the cabinets looking for bandages. He pulled out a box of gauze and large band-aids and set them up on the counter. He threw his jacket and t-shirt off and dropped them to the floor. A tremble went through him as he saw the deep gashes that were scattered all across his stomach and chest. There was one right below his breast-bone that had cut especially deep causing him to wince when he skimming his finger tips over it. There were only a few small shards stuck in his palms which he quickly picket out and tossed in the waste basket.

Suddenly the door burst open and John stood there about to go off on Sherlock until his caught the sight of Sherlock's torso, "Holy shit! Sherlock what happened?"

"John, I'm fine. I just had a bit of an accident. Don't worry." Sherlock said in a pleading tone.

"Sit." John ordered.

"What?" Sherlock asked confused.

"Sit down on the toilet I'm going to fix you up." John persisted.

Sherlock obeyed, wincing as he lowered himself down. John grabbed the two boxes Sherlock had got out and started to press gauze over the spots that were deeper and bloodier. He worked quickly and precisely, getting the gauze on just right to cover the areas and putting the bandages on at the right place and angle. It was something he was quite used to, it was instinct.

He didn't ask further about Sherlock's 'accident' as he worked on his gashes. When he finished he stood and gazed over his finished looked and suddenly stooped down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead without explanation. Sherlock would've blushed but he became aware of how badly John was shaking with both pain and worry. "I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured.

"S'okay." John whispered and took Sherlock's hand in his, "Let's go to bed. No running off."

"Okay." Sherlock stood up and followed John in to the bedroom. They didn't cuddle up this time but John held on to Sherlock's hand tightly throughout the night afraid if he didn't he'd slip away.


	7. Memories

**A/N: Thank you, lovelies, for reading and reviewing. I love you all bunches and wish you cozy jumpers and delicious jam. **

* * *

When John woke up the next morning he felt stiff and sore as if he'd been tossing and turning uncomfortably all night. Maybe he had. His hand was empty, Sherlock was gone.

John hated the sharp stab he got in his chest when he didn't know where Sherlock was. He had greatly treasure yesterday morning when the woke up with the detective asleep next to him, knowing he was safe and out of harm's way. He also missed the warmth of another human beside him, even though Sherlock's hands were usually cold warmth radiated from his body and gave him a blanket of security.

John sighed and pulled himself up and leaned back against his pillows. He shouldn't worry, Sherlock was most likely out in the kitchen drinking coffee and working on paperwork for some case. When John ventured out in to the hall he stopped at the bathroom to see if the bandages on his face needed to be updated. He shut the door behind him and turned the lights on, dimming the setting, and leaned over sink.

He pulled off one of the larger bandages from his forehead and grabbed a wash rag to wash the blood away from the area. It looked to be healing pretty well and at a good rate. He yawned and squatted down carefully to rummage through the cabinet to get a clean bandage. As he pulled the box up on to the counter there was a sudden thump from behind the curtains of the shower. John stepped forward and carefully drew the curtain to the side.

Sherlock was curled up in the bathtub with John's regularly worn striped jumper in his grip. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John gasped. Sherlock's eyes slowly peeled open and he looked at John as though he had no idea where he was or what he was doing. "Sherlock?" John knelt down by the tub.

"J'hn." Sherlock mumbled, clutching the jumper tightly. He slowly sat up staring blankly at his flatmate who looked a considerable amount worried. "Where'm I?" He said, his eyes drooping. Before John could answer Sherlock straightened up and his eyes widened, "Bathtub? Oh right. Yeah." He looked down at the jumper in his arms. "Didn't know where the blankets were." He said muttered. "Couch was too hot."

Sherlock had flopped around on the cushions last night trying to cool himself. The bedroom was cool enough but he felt he needed to distance himself from John so he could think. He ended up pacing about the house for hours before he collapsed in to the cool material of the bath tub and grabbed John's jumper, that he'd left in the bathroom, so he could hope for no nightmares but only the sweet scent of the army doctor.

Sherlock kindly handed John his piece of clothing and began to climb clumsily out of the bathtub. He'd been too hot endure his thick pajama pants so he'd stripped down to his t-shirt and pants and threw his thin blue dressing gown over himself. He pulled himself up by the counter and gazed at John, "Sorry I didn't stay with you last night. I had to think." Sherlock whispered. "Let's get your painkillers." He ushered John out of the bathroom in front of him.

John limped ahead of Sherlock across the hall and in to the kitchen. Sherlock gradually guided him in to a kitchen chair and glided over to the kitchen cabinets where he had now put John's medicine. "Are you in any pain?" John asked. Sherlock turned his head to glance at John questioningly, he must've forgotten that he'd been brutally slashed by glass. He never really paid attention to his own physical health.

Sherlock finally made a face, remembering what had happened, and gently shook his head, "I'm perfectly fine, John." He answered then pulled down the small white bottle and started to ration out the proper amount. He snuck a single pill for himself since he did indeed feel a dull pain where he'd been cut all across his front. He quickly slipped it on his tongue and gulped it down.

He grabbed a clean cup from the sink and filled it up with cold water for John to take with his pills. John sat tiredly at the table wishing to curl up in bed for a bit longer but wanted to try and convince Sherlock that he was healthy enough to go back to Baker Street. Tomorrow. He wanted to leave tomorrow, he was nearly sick of this place even though Sherlock was there. It reminded him too much of what had happened. What happened. Moriarty. Kidnapped...

_"I've got plenty of tools, Doctor Watson. All of them, I can guarantee, will cause the most pain to you without you slipping in to the hands of death. Unless of course you want to tell me more about you're little 'friend'." _

_"Never."_

_"Well, okay. Boring. Go ahead boys, have at him. I'll be out negotiating with some of my clients."_

_Laughing. Scalpel glinting in the dim lighting of the room. "Please no. God no." Too late._

_Sharp. Plunging in to flesh. Pain. Screaming, couldn't hold it down. Pain, so much damn pain. Blood. _

_Crimson spilling over the pale complexion of skin. A beautiful nightmare. _

_"Keep screaming. Tha's my favorite part." Came the gruff and humor-filled voice. Stop. Stop screaming. Jaw clamped shut, enduring the pain. Head bursting with that of internal screams. Help . . . someone . . ._

"John!"

The army doctor found himself on the tiled flooring in the kitchen, his throat feeling sore, Sherlock's hands gripping tightly to his shoulders. He was breathing heavily. Why? Why. . .

His heart was pounding also. Very fast. His whole body was tense and shaking with fear and pain. "Sh-Sherlock." He choked out. He hands were fumbling over his stomach and chest. The pain was so real, as if his wounds had been tore open once more. Sherlock . . .

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock's voice was coated with worry and fear.

"Mem...memories." John whispered, relaxing some. He was safe, he felt in as though nothing could harm him as he looked in to those icy blue pools that were his flatmate's eyes. Sherlock didn't respond because he knew exactly what John was talking about. "'m sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." John murmured pulling himself carefully back up in to his chair. He wished Sherlock would stop staring at him with deep concern, it was an out-of-place look for the detective. That was new, memories. Just like those dreams of the war he always had.

Great, thought John, one more thing to wake up screaming about in the middle of the night.

"John. If you want to talk about it . . ." Sherlock started pushing John's pills over the table to him along with his water.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. I was kidnapped, hurt, then rescued. There's no more to talk about." John grimaced, staring at his pills intently.

"John." He whispered softly staring in to his eyes. John's eye's broke from contact and a visible shudder went through his body,"I'm sorry. If you don't want to...you don't need to." Sherlock said cautiously. His gaze locked on to John for a few moments then he disappeared in to the hallway leaving John to take his pills and sit quietly at the table.

He forced them down, not even taking a drink of his water, and rested his arms and head on the table. He needed to tell Sherlock. What had happened. He had a right to know, John was just being a frightened child. He needed to get over it, because he was safe. Safe. Sherlock needed to know why John had been snatched up and tortured for hours on end. John just needed a few hours to build up the courage and figure out exactly what he'd tell Sherlock. Without tears. How could he explain all those things without bursting out in to a sob. Sherlock was the last person he wanted to see him cry. Like a child.

John remained at the table, eyes closed, thinking. He just needed some time before he could share his tale. He was safe now, it was okay, it was fine to let it all out now. Sherlock needed to know.

John sat there for a good while mulling over these thoughts.

x

Sherlock had settled on the couch, pulling his quilt over himself, and had been there for several hours. John hadn't come out at all, Sherlock didn't even question why he'd been in the kitchen for so long. He was thinking. Fingertips pressed together and positioned beneath his chin. He needed to think and browse through everything that was crowding his brain and delete. Delete unimportant things. Unimportant fragments of information that just sat lazily in his mind without any purpose.

He didn't even notice John as he entered meekly in to he room. He collapsed in to the desk chair, tugging uncomfortably at his jumper, and folded his hands on his lap. "Sherlock." John said, voice slightly choked. The detective's thinking process abruptly halted to a stop and his head turned so he could see John. When did he get there? He shifted up in to a sitting position and lifted his chin, signaling John to proceed in whatever he was going to say. "I'm ready to talk."

Sherlock nodded, "Pray take a seat next to me, if that would be more comfortable."

John offered a weak smile and lumbered over to settle down on the couch. He kept his distance from Sherlock, feeling if he were to close that he'd burst in to tears as he re-encountered the _events._ Sherlock understood this by the way John sat himself on the couch and the expression on his face, but Sherlock really wanted to be next to him holding his hand and being there since he couldn't when he'd been taken.

John took in a deep shaky breath before words began to fumble from his mouth, "I faintly remember being in the bathroom. The tough looking guy walking past, it was nothing of importance. I just wanted to get back to the movie; back to you. He grabbed me and it took me several moments to register what was happening. The rest was such a blur. His hand tightly around my neck, I couldn't breathe, and he dragged me away. I tried to get away, to scream or cry out, but I couldn't see any longer and I don't know how the man managed to smuggle me out of the cinema without anyone's notice."

John's eyes were focused on his knees as he couldn't being himself to look at Sherlock as he talked, "When I woke up everything was blurry and muffled. I couldn't even trust I was awake. I was drugged. I couldn't even feel fear for the first two hours, I barely even cared what was going on. Soon I realized I was strapped down to the table, I was alone then, and I was scared. So afraid. I tried for hours to break from those holds. Then. . ." John took another shaky breath, "Moriarty came in."

John's eyes slid shut, "He told me what I already had figured out. I had been captured and secluded in to the small little room, but what I hadn't known, though could have easily guessed, was that he had a fun little plan made up. He pulled out this . . . tray . . . full of little tools. Like in a room prepped for surgery. Scalpels." As he said that word he felt an ache in his stomach. "God, I tried not to scream. Tried not to give them that satisfaction." Tears. John gritted his teeth, tears welling up in his eyes, they couldn't fall. He couldn't cry.

He waited for several moments trying to collect himself and banish away his watering eyes. He heaved a light sigh and started again, "He came in later. Started asking questions about you. You're childhood, early adulthood, you presently. He wanted all of your life story. I wouldn't give it to him. He'd pry for hours then once he saw I wasn't going to cooperate he'd call in his men again and . . ."

Sherlock's hand suddenly slipped in to John's, finger intertwined, and gave him a reassuring squeeze. More tears threatened at the back of John's eyes. Touch. He kept his hand in Sherlock's, but his eyes remained away from Sherlock's deep blue ones.

"He kept trying over and over. Without success. I wouldn't give in. Eventually the pain was always there and any new type of torture barely effected me. It all meshed together in to a terrible gut-wrenching strain. Moriarty and his little henchmen left for a while. It didn't matter, I was still in unbearable pain all the same. I passed out several times not being able to cope with it all in consciousness. Finally, I suppose it was the next day - there was no way to tell, he walked in by himself. Some of my body had gone numb by then but I still could barely stay awake. He stood there for a while just staring at me. I couldn't say anything, I was too exhausted."

"H-He told me that he had you. He said they'd gotten you and escorted you in to another room where they were doing the same to him as they did to me. I couldn't stand the thought of you being . . . beaten. I didn't know what to do. He said they'd let you go if I just spoke up. I asked to see you but they didn't give in to my commands. I begged as much as I could but he just pried more. Information, he was desperate for it. I had passed out, couldn't stay awake. I was beyond unconscious, I was basically dead. I felt dead, but I woke again to Moriarty's surprise. That's when he said they were going to . . . kill you. I tried to give them something, some information. Fake information, but something. Then I blacked out. The pain . . ."

When John couldn't continue he crumpled on to the couch, tears streaming down his cheeks. Sherlock pulled him tightly in to his arms feeling a burning passion within himself and he never wanted to let John go. He never wanted John to ever feel the sensation of pain ever again. How could he of let this all happen to him? "John, I'm so sorry. I never want you to go through this. . ." He murmured feeling his own voice draw thin.

John's face lifted, his eyes locking the gaze of Sherlock's, and he wanted to say something. Something. He didn't know what to . . .

"John." Sherlock whispered, pressing his forehead against John's.

Pupil's dilated. "Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath hitched, "_I love you._"


	8. Confession

"_I love you._"

Sherlock's deep blue eyes bore in to John's as he said this. Those three little words were said with such confidence and emotion it made a shiver go down John's spine. John desperately searched for words to say but he was completely choked up. Sherlock slowly started to become afraid as John remained silent, nearly seeming terrified. Sherlock tried not to back down and apologize for what he said because he meant it; John needed to know.

He straightened up and took a deep breath, "I just needed to tell you that, John." He closed his eyes feeling dread ball up in his chest, "I've been mulling over all of this for days now. You being kidnapped just made me think about how much you mean to me and-" He was cut off but a sudden pressure on his lips. His eyes flew open to see John pressed against him, kissing him.

Sherlock relaxed in to the kiss, it was warm and comforting. His eyelids slid back down over his eyes and he found his hands moving to cup John's face. Warmth radiated from his body and the grip of dread he had felt slowly melted away. "Mm, J'n." Sherlock mumbled, breaking the kiss to breathe. He looked up in to John's eyes to see an overwhelming amount of lust.

"Sherlock." He chuckled, "You bloody idiot. What took you so long?" He still hovered closely in front his flat mate, hands tucked in to the man's dark curls.

"I-I . . . John . . ." He felt confused and wanted some sort of answer from him.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." John leaned forward to whisper in to his ear. He sat back and took Sherlock's hand in his, lacing their fingers together, "Sherlock, it was never your fault that I was taken. Don't ever think that. It just happened and it's over with and now I'm safe with you. You rescued me. If I had to go through all of that again for you I would; because I love you. You are a spectacularly clever man and I would've been sitting in a small old dusty flat alone if I hadn't met you. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"John." Sherlock whispered, voice slightly shaking. His eyes searched John's face for something, doubt maybe? Fear? Something was wrong with this, how could it all have worked out so well. Nobody could love Sherlock Holmes could they? It was impossible, but what all John had just said seemed so real and true. "Do . . . do you really mean all of that? I don't want you to say it back just because-"

"Of course I mean it. Why wouldn't I?" John question, lightly rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's hand.

"No one's ever really . . . loved me." Sherlock murmured staring at John.

"Your family of course does." John smiled, "I'm sure many others too, but none of them know you like I do."

"I sometimes doubt whether my family does. Not that they don't have affection towards me but just because they are like me. Caring is viewed as a disadvantage and always had been. I'm the only one to ever slip in to it and find out that it's a wonderful thing to have someone to care about. John before I met you I was in terrible condition. The moment I saw you my life completely changed; for the better." Sherlock spoke feeling uneasy and vulnerable. He gripped John's hand tighter, "It's just hard to believe you share my same feelings. I didn't really know what I expected you to say but you mirroring my emotion didn't seem likely."

John didn't know what to say, he'd never seen Sherlock so innocent and open to sharing. Emotion. Emotion was in every crease of his face and shone brightly in his eyes. "When I first met you I think I might have fallen in love right then. As soon as you asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' I had instantly felt something for you. An emotion I'd never felt with anyone else before. The more I came to know you the more I fell for you, even though you could be an absolute dick, I was madly in love with you."

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments before a smile spread across his face and leaned over John pushing back on the couch. "I was madly in love with you the minute you stepped in that door." He whispered before pressing his lips softly against John's. The feeling he got when he kissed John was amazing. John's lips were soft and warm. It wasn't an intense kiss but a gentle and loving one that broke after only a few moments.

Their eyes met, Sherlock could feel John's breath against his skin, and they stayed in that position just staring at each other. The heat between each other was comforting in the chilled room and the love that was seizing both of them was easily visible in their eyes. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, keeping his eyes on his, and smiled. "Damn. Why didn't I express my feelings earlier?" He whispered, voice unusually full of humor.

John laughed lightly and lifted his hand to skim his fingers over Sherlock's face, "You got a lot of time to make up for." He said in a rather husky voice. Sherlock blushed involuntarily.

"We could watch a romantic comedy or whatever it was you wanted to watch." Sherlock offered, slowly sitting back up, but keeping his hand in John's.

John smiled, "Nah. That's okay. I won't force you in to anything like that."

"Thank you." Sherlock sighed relief. "I really do prefer axe murder movies with those predictable teenagers. I love being able to know the ending."

"You love to know everything." John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled since John was absolutely right.

John shifted on the couch and his smile suddenly faded and he looked up at Sherlock, the vision of Sherlock lying on the bathroom floor bleeding out suddenly flashed in his mind. He held back the gasp that choked the words he tried to say. He took a breath and looked up at Sherlock, "You never told me . . . about your accident." He said, trying to sound casual. He didn't know why the thought had come so abruptly but he couldn't let it just pass, curiosity tugged at him. Sherlock sighed and leaned forward to press his face against his hands. He should've seen this coming, but he'd hoped it would be forgotten.

Now it was here out of no where and he needed to face it. "John, really it's nothing." He tried. He knew before he'd even said it that John wouldn't just let it be, but he felt as if he could at least try. "Come on, let's watch a movie. Don't need to worry about a couple of scratches."

"Sherlock." John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You know very well this isn't going to slide."

"Yes," He replied, glancing up at John guiltily, "But it really isn't something I want you to know. I don't want to stress or worry you further. It happened and is over but I will explain. I know you wont let me away without some knowledge of the event." He took a deep breath and clutched his knees and began, "It was the other night and you had gone to bed about a few hours prior and I was out here. Thinking. I was very, stressed, so I decided to go out for a bit of a drive. I didn't know where to but it didn't matter in the end." Sherlock said, his facial features going dark.

"I got in the car and one of Moriarty's men had been stationed in the back seat with a gun. Simple, he was going to kill me. That's what he said anyway. I have a feeling that wasn't his actual plan because I don't see why I'm not dead already if Moriarty wanted me to be. Long story short I grabbed him and flung him through the windshield. I wanted to disarm him as quick as possible so I dove over the glass therefore receiving a good amount of cuts. I had Lestrade take him in to the station and then I went back inside. End of story." Sherlock kept his eyes away from John's. He desperately wanted to avoid the assumed round of questions.

"Are we ever going to be left alone?" John asked, almost sounding frightened.

Sherlock turned to face John and took both of his hands in his and gentle squeezed them, "I will do my best to keep you safe, John. It'll take a lot of my time away from you to take care of Moriarty but it'll be worth the time and strain. I never want him to hurt you ever again, and he wont." He then pressed a kiss to John's forehead and got to his feet.

He silently walked out of the room and down the hallway to the bedroom. "Where are you going?" John called.

"I need to go to my mind palace. Take a nap, have some tea, eat some jam." He replied in a low voice, barely audible to John, and shut the bedroom door behind him. John sighed, he should be used to Sherlock's abrupt actions by now but he figured they could spend some time together considering they both just confessed their love for each other. Isn't that what normal people would do?

Then again, they weren't your average couple.

**A/N: Yeah this was short. Sorry, I had a writers block all this weekend so this might be rubbish. I kind of just needed to finish this chapter to get it over with because I have literally deleted it and retyped it four times now. I promise the next chapter will be better and longer. Thanks darlings, much love. **


	9. Home

**A/N: This is a bit rubbish also only because it's a little bit slow at this certain part in the story. I've been having some serious writers block too and I can't quite seem to get over it. Fluff and romance in general is a bit of a difficult area for me since I've never really been in a relationship myself. Yes I'm a loser, sorry c: Anyway . . . JANUARY 19TH! YAY!  
**

**Sorry for the wait on this chapter. Had a tremendous amount of homework, studying, academic team and drama practices. **

**Enjoy you lovely little buttercups. **

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It'd been a few hours and Sherlock was still locked in the bedroom alone with his thoughts. John sat out at the kitchen quietly reading through the newspapers for the last few days since he'd missed them. John laced his fingers together as he read on, trying not to fret about Sherlock's absence. He'd felt shaky and afraid since he'd told Sherlock how he truly felt; he wondered whether he should have just left it unsaid. Sherlock said it first though, what else could he have done?

John had many times witnessed Sherlock up and leaving in the middle of their conversations to go in to his room but this time it hurt. What could he possibly be thinking about for so long? Did he want to take back what he'd said? God, no. That would just be another wound on his flesh. John had debated continuously on going out and finding a nearby pub to spend some time at. If Sherlock could go off to his mind palace by himself it was perfectly fine John to leave. Just for a few hours.

He indulged himself in to a certain article about murders in Whales . . . Whales. Cabin. John squinted his eyes to look at the sentence again, '_Ongoing case for the murders of Cassie Prince, Addison Monroe, and Rodney Flinnigan; new information found. Bodies were recovered several miles away from where they were confirmed to have been killed in a vacation cabin in Whales.'_ Cabin. Yes, vacation cabin. John pressed his hands over his face, taking a deep sigh, and pressed his eyes shut. He couldn't help feeling that it was the same cabin he'd been taken to, and that Moriarty had indeed been the one who took part in the three murders that had happened before his abduction.

John also saw the investigation was being led by the one and only DI Lestrade. Wouldn't Sherlock have known this then? It would only make sense that Lestrade knew because Sherlock have shared the information.

Was Lestrade there when he'd been rescued?

_"No way! We . . . to get him . . . hospital!"_

_"No, we're . . . house . . . south . . . one of Mycroft . . . where I . . . John and wait . . . back to London."_

Dialogue flashed in his mind. Dialogue he wasn't aware he had even heard but it cut in to his mind so sharply it would have to be true. The two voices that were attached to the words that circled around in John's head most definitely belonged to those of Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. Where was that? The cabin? Why had Lestrade been there then?

Sherlock had asked John for his own encounter of his gut-wrenching story but John hadn't even thought of asking Sherlock of what at all happened at his own side of the story.

It didn't matter, John told himself, it's over and done.

He sighed, eyes straying from the paper, and smoothed the page out on the table.

John folded up the papers he had spread across the kitchen table and piled them up in the middle. Perhaps he could phone Lestrade and pry more information out of him about the man who had tried to kill Sherlock and about the night he'd been rescued. He doubted Lestrade would know much more than he did. Maybe not.

John couldn't go anywhere now that he really thought about it. Sherlock had locked the bedroom door restricting him from going in and changing in to something other than his pajamas and dressing gown. He let out a frustrated sigh and got up from his seat, pushing the chair back under the table, and treaded in to the hall. When he approached the bedroom door he was surprised to see it slightly ajar, "Sherlock?" John called out softly, pressing the door open further.

Sherlock was lying out on the bed, shoulders and head leaning against the head board, with his hands pressed together against his lips. He didn't look at John as he entered but remained frozen in the position. John proceeded inside and ambled over to the dresser to find something to put on to go out in.

He grabbed a pair of jeans and his striped jumper, folding them over his arm, and started back out in to the hallway but was stopped as Sherlock's voice sliced the silenced air, "Where are you going?" He asked. John stepped backwards in to the room to look at Sherlock who remained in his thinking position.

"I don't know. Just out, might got to the pub." John shrugged. He wasn't angry he just needed his own time and space to think, especially away from this small vacation house that was beginning to smell like cologne and jam. Sherlock finally broke his train of thought and sat up to look at John.

"Okay." He said.

"Okay." John mimicked and left the room feeling slightly hurt. What was up with him? He didn't want to talk at all, barely paid attention to him. John just needed to go out and think about all that had happened and sort things out before he became overwhelmed. "Goodbye." John called as he pulled on his coat in the living room.

"I love you." Came a soft low voice from the bedroom. John smiled to himself and heaved a sigh, he just needed a few hours. This was a weird area for him, he slowly came to understand why Sherlock needed his time to ponder over things.

"I love you too." He replied and swept out of the house.

x

He'd left. To think most likely. This was very strange for both of them, Sherlock had to admit. It was new and even frightening so it was only logical for them both to need a little time to themselves to get everything straight. Everything needed some time to sink in for both of them - they might've had this all planned out in their heads for some times - confessing their love was something new though. It was more than just planning out that moment in time where it would hopefully click in to place.

Love.

It was a difficult concept for Sherlock to grasp, he knew it wasn't the best idea to have just walked off after everything had gone down but it was something he always resorted to. Escaping. Slipping away from his troubles to mull over them for a bit so he knew exactly what to do about them. This wasn't a problem though? It shouldn't be. It was him and John together at a different level than usual. A more intimate level, a deeper relationship. It was something positive happening so why did it scare Sherlock so much?

The pub. Where was there a pub anywhere nearby? They were practically in the country. Dammit, what if something happened to John out there?

Sherlock jumped off the bed and snatched his coat from the rack, knocking it over in the process, and flew out the door. Thank God, John hadn't left yet. He was still sitting in the car glancing down at his phone. Sherlock's eyes immediately looked past John to the back seat which was thankfully not harboring murders.

When he looked back to John their eyes met. John slowly got out of the car, "What are you doing, Sherlock?" He called, grasping the top of the car door.

"I was worried . . ." He mumbled as he stepped over to John. He pulled his coat carefully over himself, bending down the collar, and buttoned it up. His gaze was purposely averted from John's. "I was worried something might happen to you. I don't want you to go alone. Not with Moriarty still out there."

"Let's just go home." John blurted out. He gently slipped his hand over Sherlock's and looked in to his eyes, "I just want to be back at Baker street, the more I stay here the more I think about all that had happened. I just want to be back in our flat, this place only gives me nightmares and makes me restless. I'm fine now, perfectly fine. It's safe to go home, so let's just go."

Sherlock remained silent and speechless for several moments. John wondered whether he should further comment on the topic, maybe bring more proof of his better overall health. There wasn't really any reason for them to keep their temporary residence at the small cramped vacation house.

Sherlock's eyes glued to the ground his eyes clouded as if he were in to deep thought. His eyes slightly shifted to his hand which was in John's. When he finally looked up to make eye contact with John he smiled. "Of course, but I'll need to go inside to fetch my scarf."

John grinned and, not being able to contain himself, grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and pulled him down to smash his lips against the detective's. Sherlock was shocked at the sudden action, remaining frozen for a few brief moments, but quickly relaxed and rested his hands on John's shoulders. Their lips move together in synchronization. John's hands still grasped Sherlock's coat as he pressed further into the kiss, more passionate and less gentle than the first one they shared.

Sherlock's hand's moved up to rest lightly on the back of John's neck. He bent down further to press himself further in their kiss. They didn't ever get aggressive with the action of love but kept it mostly gentle and warm. Sherlock's hands subconsciously drew circles on the nape of John's neck. John moaned softly letting his hands rest on the detective's chest.

Sherlock broke it, as he had begun to run out of breath, and kept his face close to John's, "I'm sorry I left after all we'd said. I just needed to think before my mind got the better of me." Sherlock whispered, his warm breath wafting over John's lips.

"It's okay. I know how you are." John offered a small smile and laid a single and simple kiss on to the detective's lips before stepping away. "Go get your scarf now, you bloody git, and then let's go home."

X

John and Sherlock shuffled about inside the house packing up anything that had been brought from 221b to there, everything else had been bought from the store just for their stay so they left it. They packed up their things, mostly clothes, into small duffel bags and waited for a car that would be sent by Mycroft that would escort them to the air port that was forty-five minutes away.

They sat amongst the furniture in the living room and rather high spirits quite glad to leave, just talking.

"I suppose when we get home Mrs. Hudson will be in a mad frenzy. She'll have our heads for scaring her. I hope Mycroft has at least got someone out there to tell her, to some extent, what has happened. Not too much though." John murmured. He leaned back in the desk chair, his bag settled on his lap. He didn't like waiting to leave, he wanted to be home already, this had been a torturous time and he was ready for it to come to an end.

"It'll all be worth it just to be home and to be back to normal schedule." Sherlock replied.

"There's never a normal schedule living with you." John grinned at the detective. Sherlock offered a sly smile back, keeping his eyes on John for a few moments to take in the details of his face. His cheeks were slightly blushed, his eyes were shining once again with even more emotion than before, and his soft pale lips were pressed in to a gentle and loving smile. He couldn't help but grin at the sight of slight stubble arising around the army doctor's mouth and chin. It was a bit . . . _sexy._

Sherlock instantly cut off the thought and stiffened his expression hoping he hadn't been _gawking_ at John's five O'clock shadow. Luckily John hadn't noticed Sherlock's rather blatant stare and was absent-mindedly fiddling with the zipper on his duffel bag.

Sherlock clasped his hands together on his lap and slid down more comfortably on the couch and allowing his thoughts to invade into his mind so he could think and rummage through everything. Too many thoughts meant too much thinking when put on the spot. He needed to delete things, as if he were going through his email.

His thinking completely subdued him as he slipped away into an almost unconscious state, his mind palace. John peered over at him seeing him suddenly slouched in his seat with his clasped hands resting on his chest and his lids sinking over his eyes. John often wondered what all he could possibly be thinking about when the detective did this, he never asked because he never felt abundantly curious.

He sighed lightly, smile never leaving his lips, and hugged his bag closer to his chest hoping their ride would be there soon.

Sherlock was caught in an untidy train of thought that started to make his head throb. He was stuck though, he couldn't break from his thoughts and he winced. _Moriarty. John. Lestrade. Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson. John. Moriarty. _

_Moriarty. _The name didn't seem to want to leave Sherlock's mind alone. It kept repeating over and over, screaming at him. As long as Moriarty was out there John wasn't safe. What was the man's obsession with him? Why was it there? When he'd first discovered he'd had his _fan_ he hadn't even been in the papers. He only had his blog, The Science of Deduction. So what was this man's anger? How could he be stopped?

_Save John._

Sherlock's mind reeled. He needed to know how to get rid of the bastard, Moriarty. As much as Sherlock enjoyed the extra puzzles to solve and gloat about, Moriarty's only made him sick to his stomach. It only made him angry and frustrated and stuck. He was trapped in a corner with a man looming in front of him with a gun pressed against his the love of his life's temple.

_Save John. _

"I'm trying." Sherlock whispered and was released from his mind. His fingers instantly found their way to his temples so he could massage away the pain that had seeped inside.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's icy gaze slid up in front of him, his heart jumping, to see John kneeling in front of him. "John?"

"You've been sitting there wincing as if you were in pain. Are you alright?" John asked, his whole face contorted in worry.

"Yes. Fine." He said impassively. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat, "Our ride is here."

"Wh-" John began but was interrupted by a loud and hefty knock at the front door. Sherlock quickly got to his feet, grabbing his and John's bags, and started towards the door.

"Do be quick, John. I want to be home as much as you do." He muttered.

"Wait, Sherlock." John grabbed the man by his upper arm and stopped him in his tracks, "What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock did his best to mask his expression but he felt his fear crack through, clouding his eyes. He was thinking about John being harmed again by Moriarty and that this time he wouldn't get him back. "It doesn't matter." His baritone voice spoke with a void of emotion. He then turned to open the door and brushed past the burly man in the suit who stood there about to knock once more on the door.

"Give Mycroft our thanks for giving us a lift back home." John pasted a smile on to his face then followed the man across the pavement of the driveway and slid into the back seat of the car. Sherlock had stacked the bags in the front seat as an excuse to not have either one of them sit up there. John relaxed back against the leather seat and closed his eyes; thankful to finally be leaving the dreadful place.

Not that it wasn't a nice house offering superb decor and comfortable furnishing, but the memories within it only made it the complete negative of what it was meant to be.

Suddenly John felt a warm firm hands slip in to his and he opened his eyes to smile at Sherlock who had intertwined his fingers with John's. Sherlock was looking at him with a blank expression but still held tightly on to John's hand. "Home." He murmured.

* * *

**Just to let you know; there won't be anymore action scenes or well no more Moriarty in the story. Only the thoughts and dreads of him. The rest will be fluff I suppose and Sherly and Johnny getting settled back in 221b. I think after this story I'm going to try to write a fanfic containing several short Johnlock stories so keep a lookout for that possibility! This is not the end yet, but it is nearing it. **


	10. Flying

When they arrived at the airport John could easily see Sherlock tense at the immense crowd inside trying to find their luggage. His eyes were raking over the people who brushed past judgmentally, most likely figuring out each one of their life stories. John adjusted his bag over his shoulder and snaked his hand around Sherlock's comfortingly, "Let's go get to our plane, shall we?" John said, rather loudly so he could hear.

"Oh joy." Sherlock grumbled.

"We're going home, that's what matters right now." John tried to soothe the tense detective. Sherlock sighed and followed behind John as they sifted through the people. He kept his hand in John's, holding on tightly like a frightened child clinging to their mum.

Throughout a long and tedious process they finally boarded the plane taking first class seats. John noticed as Sherlock sat down he stared at the window his body had a slight tremor. His hands were clutching his coat tightly and he seemed unusually anxious.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes, fine!" Sherlock snapped. He turned up his coat collar so it hid his face and he slunk down his seat, face towards the window.

"Flight will be leaving in five minutes, ladies gentlemen. Please take a seat and prepare for take off." Came the feminine voice over the intercom.

"_Five minutes._" Sherlock muttered, a slight shiver going through his body.

"Sherlock." John whispered, grabbing his elbow, "What's wrong?"

Sherlock finally turned to look at John, his face had turned a few shades paler than before and his eyes were wide with fear. "I don't like planes." He whispered, his voice surprisingly steady. "Never have. Can we just get off and drive there. It wont even take that long."

"Sherlock, we're perfectly safe in this plane. It'll be quicker and we're already on board. It's going to be fine. You've been toe to toe with murderers, you are perfectly capable of surviving a flight from Whales to London." He encouraged, "I'll be here with you the whole time." He lightly patted the detective's arm before resting his hands back in his lap.

Sherlock still remained staring at the army doctor. He'd masked most of his fear by now but he still let some seep through. He didn't know why he was deathly afraid of flying but it was just there never leaving. Ever since he'd taken his first airplane ride when he was five years old he's always kept that fear and always been terribly anxious even being around the monstrous air mobiles.

"John." Sherlock mumbled shyly.

"Yes?" John glanced over at him.

"Could you . . . could you hold my hand? I just . . ." He asked trying his best to keep his voice strong and normal.

"Of course." John smiled and took Sherlock's hand in his, gently rubbing circles over his hand. "It's alright, Sherlock. A few hours then were back in London."

Sherlock didn't respond but just grasped on to John's hand tightly as he gazed out of the window at the ground trying to memorize it so he could pretend as if that the ground would be right there the whole they were flying. "We are now ready for lift off. Please put on your seat belts and get ready for your flight." The voice blared over the intercom once more.

Sherlock shot up from his seat, "I need to get out John." He gasped. He tried to press forward out in to the aisle but John grabbed his by his fore arm and shoved him back in his seat with surprising strength. "John please! Let's just go! Now!" He was flailing around wildly looking immensely afraid. As John grasped him by wrists he felt his pulse rapidly speeding up.

"Sherlock, please calm down. It's going to be okay. Everything is fine. There is absolutely nothing to worry about." John tried, keeping a tight grip on him. He lifted one of his hands to cup Sherlock's face, "It's okay, I'm here. There's nothing to worry about." He whispered in a soft and gentle voice.

"Sir, is everything alright?" Came a small and slightly raspy voice. John glanced over to the airplane attendant standing at the end of their row of seats. "First flier are you?" She said with a patronizing gaze.

John let out a sigh, he didn't even try stopping what he knew was about to happen.

"Oh no. No, no; but you're obviously a first time drug user. Cocaine is the most plausible. You're lucky working at an airport that no one's found your little stash that you keep with you. In your _bra_. You think you're clever thinking of that little place where no one would think to look let alone feel comfortable with looking there." Sherlock started but was far from finished.

"Sher-"

"I should know how that looks, using that nasty little drug. You've been snorting it because that's the easiest way to take and you have small traces of snot and blood crusted around your nose. Your voice is also slightly hoarse but it was worse before now, you blame it all on a cold to anyone who might ask but we both know better than that. You're slightly shaking and look tightly strung so it's been quite some time since your last fix. You've been giving people strange looks as if your worried their going to do something to you, you're paranoid. A lot of people are naturally like that but I don't suspect that a natural trait of yours."

"'Oh how do you know where I've been keeping it?' you might wonder. Your uniform is buttoned up to the the topmost latch, not a fashion decision, no, you want to hide something. Your face is completely bombarded with make up. You're a flirty little attendant, aren't you? You wouldn't have one of your most valuable weapons of seduction boarded up underneath your blouse unless there was some reason. The buttons on the top have fallen off several times and been re-sewn on because you've always been in rush while trying to reach down and grab your supplies. You most likely do it in the bathroom on each of your flights. You don't have much time in there as you are on work time and you don't want anyone to be suspicious. The fact that this is all so blatant and your symptoms of drug use are also quite obvious and heightened in effect shows that this is more likely a new habit you've picked up." Sherlock finished taking a deep breath.

The woman looked absolutely petrified and was speechless. Her eyes flicked from Sherlock back to John not knowing any sort of retort. She finally let out a strangled cry and stormed down the aisle and disappeared from the area.

"Sherlock that was quite unnecessary." John grumbled.

"Oh but that felt so good." He sighed some relief. It'd been forever since he'd shown off like that it brought an adrenaline coursing through his veins making him feel much alive. He had nearly forgot about his phobia of flying on a plane and luckily had been distracted enough to not notice the place being lifted up in to the air. He took another deep breath and sunk down in his seat and pressed his hands against his chin.

"So are you alright now then? Now that you got all that out of your system." John huffed, offering his hand.

"Yes, yes. I'm find John. Perfectly fine. I don't need you to hold my hand. I'm not a child." He growled rather harshly.

John clenched his jaw trying hard to remember how quickly Sherlock could swing to different moods, "You're being a prick again, so you must be in a much better mood than before. I'm glad."

The detective didn't respond but felt guilt gnaw at him. He kept his eyes averted from the window and locked them on the back of the seat that was in front of him.

John sighed and relaxed back in to his seat subconsciously rubbing at his shoulder where his old bullet wound was - which had been reopened when he had been captured. John slowly closed his eyes hoping to ease in to some rest and be able to wake up several hours later when their plane would have landed. Just as he was about to slip in to sleep he felt chilled slender fingers slide in between his and lock together tightly.

John pried his eyes open to look at Sherlock who's head was slowly sliding down to rest on John's shoulder. "Mm sorry." He murmured, "I love you."

John grinned, "Are you expecting those words to work on my every time you're rude?" His lips pressed against the detective's dark curls.

"Mhm." Sherlock hummed, pressed his face against the warmth of John's neck breathing in his pleasant scent. John chuckled softly and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and ran his fingers briefly through his mop of soft curls.

"I love you too, Sherlock." He sighed and let himself drift off in to a peaceful sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the short-ish chapter but the weeks are getting busier for me. I'm in school right now so I have lots of homework and studying to do along with Drama and Academic team. :/ My apologies, but here you go! Enjoy lovelies! (Note that this isn't the last chapter but the next one most likely will be)**


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